Never Meant To Be
by eatingpaper
Summary: "He thinks of all the times they had spent together – not only the quarrels and banter, but the happier memories like the dates in the park, the trips to the teahouses and libraries and each others' bedrooms… how could it not have been love?"  /FrUK ,  AU


**Disclaimer : I cannot draw to save my life.**

Yes, another angsty story. I'm sorry. I'm just really stressed and my life has been crappy ever since it started and the story goes on and on.

I need to get it out of my system so I can properly write Thirty Days. (which I _will_, darn you, writers' block)

This is Francis' side of PoisonIvania's 'Never Meant To Be'. Her's (which you should go and read) is Abigail's POV

-bows- Thank you for letting me use the idea~ :D

... okay I should shut up now.

Oh, Warnings : Mentions of sex.

_

* * *

Wait. Stop. Don't leave._

How he wishes to hear those words from her lips, voice laced with desperation and love and need.

But it will not happen, he knows. She is too proud. He is too tired.

.  
.

It was obviously never meant to be, not even since the beginning of time – not even before they had conceded that their heated arguments and quarrels had become less full of anger and more of sexual tension. He had always been chasing after the girl with the long blonde ponytails and blazing emerald eyes. There had been something about the girl, ever since he had laid eyes on her, that drew him to her. She was different from other girls; she did not throw herself onto him, but rather than willingly submit to his advances, she had held herself high and scorned him.

(Perhaps it could have been the fact that she was so unattainable that made Francis want her so _bad_)

The two of them saw enough – _more _than enough – of each other in the workplace, and arguments usually erupted when they did. The hours were long, the superiors demanding and the meetings boring; tensions ran high. It had been after a terrible day of competing against each other for a promotion when the two of them were alone in the meeting room. And it was there where Abigail had thrown her hands up in the air in mid-argument and roughly kissed him squarely on the lips.

It was _to shut him the bloody hell up_, she had claimed, but the blush on her cheeks told otherwise.

It had taken nine months of Abigail slowly opening up to him, regularly pushing him away and the usual dosage of scorn for Francis to realize that he _truly _loved the girl; it was not some fleeting schoolboy crush. And he sincerely felt that it was the same for her.

.  
.

It is nearly sunset and they are on date to the piers at the edge of town. The two of them are standing a little ways away from the railing, just standing in companionable silence and marveling at the sea. The sun's dying rays turn her hair golden, send her cheeks glowing, and fill her eyes with dancing light; he cannot think of a time when she had been more beautiful.

(Except for maybe when she was on the bed beneath him, flaxen hair splayed out, lips puffy from the kissing and cheeks tinged with just a hint of pink and, oh, those _eyes_)

The fresh, salty air, the calming sound of the waves and the general inspiring atmosphere of the place fills his heart with courage and pounds adrenaline through his body. In his mind a grand and marvelous plan is waiting to unfold.

"Darling Abigail, will you run away _with_ me?" He asks her theatrically. He is full of passion and turns to face her, confident that she would say 'Yes'.

(Of course she _would_)

It takes her a second to reply, and two seconds for the brimming confidence to vanish.

"No," She says, and he can see himself reflected in her absinthe eyes, face screwed up in confusion.

"_Why?" _

There are no words to express his confusion and growing despair and maybe, just a little bit of frustration. He stares wide-eyed as Abigail remains silent, simply returning his gaze.

_Mon dieu_, is this woman that dense? Does he have to spell out everything for her?

"For god's sake, Abigail! I'm asking you to _marry _me!"

No response, save for a shake of the head and eyes cast to the ground.

His brain doesn't seem to comprehend. Here he is, standing with her by the sunset and pledging his life to her, and what does she do? She _says no_.

He doesn't know what to say; what can make her change her mind? For the past nine months – and even before that – he had learned many things about the love of his life. One of them was that she could be stubborn when she wanted to, and there was no changing her mind when it was set.

"I _love_ you Abigail_!_ Don't you_ know_ that!" He pleads, reaching down to grasp her hands tightly, as if the physical contact could somehow convey his feelings to her. His throat tightens and he is forced to suppress the trembling in his hands when she remains silent and avoids his gaze. He steadies his voice to hide his fear. "Do you not love me, _mon cher_?"

He thinks of all the times they had spent together – not only the quarrels and banter, but the happier memories like the dates in the park, the trips to the teahouses and libraries and each others' bedrooms… how could it not have been love?

(They had been _happy_)

He does not want their relationship to end just like this, but he cannot think of a good ending for the two of them.

Throwing all caution to the wind, he continues with a, "Look me in the eye and tell me that you do _not_ love me," He says firmly. He is afraid of what the answer might be. "I_ dare_ you." If she does not, he will be done with her and nurse his broken heart. But first, he must know.

His heart skips a beat and he allows himself to believe in hope as she looks up slowly and focuses on him.

"I don't love you. I _never_ did."

(And the sky comes crashing down)

Her eyes are shining. It could be tears, it could be anger, could be determination. He doesn't bother to comprehend; he can feel his own heart shattering within his chest and the undeniable pain and the tears welling up in his eyes.

"I see. So this is how it ends?" He says mournfully, depression and despair sinking into him.

Again, she says nothing. The silence itself hurts more than spoken rejection.

He has given up so much for her. He has stopped his perverse and lewd tendencies towards others, trimmed his beard, run in the rain for hours just to get that tin of tealeaves for her, tolerated all the times she would push him away in scorn or embarrassment… He is French and when he loves, he loves with all his heart and now the British had ripped it out of his chest and stamped all over it in the dirt.

He lets go of her hands, and takes a small step back.

Francis looks towards the heavens – bleached crimson and gold – above, trying to force the tears back. It seems to be mocking him; what a colour combinationg more fitting for a joyous, triumphant even, not for the background of a picture of battered hearts by the sea. Were sunsets not romantic settings? Didn't everybody kiss their loved ones in the rays of a dying sun? Why did he, of all people, have to have the contrary storyline?

"I," He leans down, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "Am _sick _and _tired _of you_ pushing _me away."

He straightens back up and turns on his heel, walking resolutely away from her and towards the little twinkling lights in the distance; he will find a bar in town and drown his sorrows in the depths of his beer mug. He will gather all memories of her and lock them away in the corner of his heart where all the other beloved bygones are.

.

.

Two hours later, when the world is a blur, groggy mess and his head is hurting him and when he has his arm around another woman, he remembers dimly, at the back of his mind, that Abigail had never been on to be expressive about her true feelings.

(He should have guessed; He should have _known_)

But it is far too late. He stumbles into someone's room and tumbles down onto the bed, hands running through dark locks and limbs entangled with tan ones.

The raucous laughing and drunkard giggling grates against his ears in a taunting reminder than no, of course their love was never meant to be.

.

(He is too open, She is too closed)

* * *

...Okay that kind of sucked. Oh well.

Francis and Seychelles added in there for the pepole (yes you know who you are) who like 'em together.

Suddenly, Francis and Arthur seems so much more appealing than before. It must be PoisonIvania's fault /: But all I ever write for them is angsty, sad stuff so all's good. USUK still tops them any time.

In my head-canon, Francis is just as bookish as England is, in addition to having a bit of the artistic streak. That's why I made him like that.

I'd love to listen to your opinion on this! I am still very much wanting to improve my writing skills , and characterizations ... so , please, please review ? Or PM me(: Whichever floats your boat.

OHMY. I just realized I've written in Stream of Consciousness _again_. Shucks. I thought I had stopped doing that


End file.
